Monday, 24 September 2012

Well, in a weekend of mixed fortunes, I had a great time and got robbed.

I had been working on a story for the Terribleminds challenge and I'm not going to lie: I wasn't winning. I had to write about a Paranormal Romance/Dragon/Paris 1944. Well, I had an idea; I think it was a good one.

An older couple, entering their fifties, with a lot of history between them, not all of it good. It would be atmospheric, poignant, a bit different to most paranormal romance (handsome 20-somethings face banging in the rain or equivalent) and quietly charming. I'd write it from the position of the woman for a change.

Well, I must have a stunted imagination because I couldn't make it work; it didn't flow and on redraft five, I was resigned to the fact that I would miss the challenge deadline. But I thought I was getting there on that fifth draft. I was very close to the rhythm, to the gesture, the tension that I wanted.

Then, the house I was staying in with friends over the weekend was burgled. Ipod, gone. Camera, gone. Prescription sunglasses, gone.

Notebook... gone.

The phrase I was looking for was, "EEEEEAAAAAAaaaaaaRRRRRRGGHHHHHHHYOUFUCKINGFUCKINGFUCKS!"

Anyway, I made peace with myself and went about the business of buying, in a truly extravagant shopping trip, most of what I had lost (sans glasses and camera).

I was desolate. Not because I needed the book to remember what I had to write, but because it kind of wounds the soul when something that personal disappears into the hands of cretins.

I haven't written much at all since. Not really sulking, but just jolted out of the tracks (and Chuck's challenge for this week holds no interest for me either) so I will wait for a day or two for my mojo to come back and then head out and find it if I don't.

On a happier note, the first half of the weekend was pure gold to be honest; well worth it. Also, just got a phone call suggesting that they may have found the notebook dumped by the side of the road a bit away from the house, so I may be able to get it posted back to me.

Thursday, 13 September 2012

This one is a response to Chuck Wendig's challenge "A Game of Aspects"I didn't do the random number generator thing as I wanted at least a chance of doing a complete entry by the deadline date.Anyway, coming in at 1053 words, this is a story which incorporates Dystopian/Serial Killer/Fated to Die (not super original, but I love these tropes).I hope you enjoy the entry - after my ramblings about punk this week, I'm backing myself to not look like a fool. Comments are more than welcome.

The Last Street Samurai

Glancing up through his
sun-roof at the looming mirrored glass monolith, Poke shuddered and
pulled his coat tight, the oppressive monsoon heat an increasingly
distant sensation. The Blaze neurostim was kicking in as the precious
seconds crawled past.

In the glare of night
time city lights, the sharp profile of the ChrysTech building looked
ominous as usual, poised to fall on city like the sword of Damocles.
From the stuff in the files he had put together, this wasn't too far
from the truth.

With shaking hands, he
pulled out a baccstick, and put it to his lips Mixing drugs be
damned, he needed to be sharp.

It
was difficult to resist slamming the gas pedal down and powering
away. They were running late and it was a slow torture to have to sit
and wait; each heartbeat was a moment they weren't making distance,
getting a lead.

The
tension was shattered by a headless body fired through a fifth storey
window in a shower of glass and blood. A second, similar figure was
thrown out after the first and followed by a vision of menace in gold
and carbon fibre. There was a vivid slash of glittering orange
against the black night sky.

A
spray of gore, five stories up and falling, signified end of mission
phase one.

/////

A
parked FlightLimo four spaces ahead erupted into a fountain of blood,
metal and glass as the falling trio slammed into it at speed.

Swallowing,
coughing on nicotine smoke, Poke kicked the accelerator and his ride
snaked it's way out of the parking bay. He pulled up to the impact
site with a screech of rubber and listened to the rain of vehicle
parts pinging off his new paint job.

Rolling
down the window he saw the two ChrysTech security corpses were
twisted in a gory confusion of car and flesh, a slender figure in a
tattered haori and hakama straightening up amidst all of this and
turning to face him, cybernetic limbs still shining beneath the
layers of grime and ichor.

“You
get the cores, Serial?” Poke asked.

His
partner nodded and calmly made his way over to the car, stepping out
of the wreckage and replying, “Acquired.”

There
was a pause before Serial added, “We lost Honey to hostile action.”

/////

Poke
cursed and threw away his baccstick, eyes watering with a
Blaze-enhanced rush of emotion that threatened to break him. He
barely registered as Serial handed him a small bag full of military
grade cores, the roughly excised jacks of their unfortunate operators
attached, often still with a ragged ring of gelid, cooling flesh left
on.

Poke
held down his gorge and concentrated on getting the valuable cargo
into the shockpod he'd had installed in the back seat, squeamishly
prodding all the trailing leads into the container and getting it
secure. He shot a dark glance at his partner, Serial Killer, as the
hermetic seal hissed and beeped as the lock engaged.

All
of the cybered set new that no-one did counter-intel like Serial, but
few realised how apt this guy's name really was sometimes. He
wondered what Honey's loss would do to the cyborg.

Sighing,
Poke pressed another button and the passenger door hissed open, but
Serial made no move to get in the vehicle. He seemed detached as he
flicked the blade, the flakes of scorched blood fluttering out into
the air; he seemed to be waiting. Poke wished he knew what this guy
was thinking, but the ocular implants obliterated his expression and
even the part of his face showing offered no clues.

Impassive
and deadly, Serial looked every inch the grey operative, the tech
mercenary, the hitman...

The
swordsman.

/////

“Get
in, you crazy bastard!” Serial gave a little hissing grunt at
Poke's wired, panicked tone, “We've got to get these out before
they can get mercs of their own on the case!”

The
swordsman paused then, suddenly poised like a hunter, and pointed to
the comms scanner he wore, “Armoured reinforcements,” he offered
casually.

“Come
on!” Poke wailed, moving to open his door and remonstrate with
Serial, “We've got to-”

He
was cut off as a cold, metal hand forced the door shut against all
his efforts. Serial was looking down at him, that creepily direct
stare of someone looking through artificial optics. The swordsman
seemed to almost hum with suppressed emotion, but turned away to look
down the road, letting the sword rest by his side, ready.

“You
will go, Poke. I have finished my part of the contract,” Serial
seemed to weigh his sword in his hand for a second, before lifting
his chin, “I must now seek to satisfy the demands of my honour.”

“Honey
left something with you, I believe.” Serial said, not turning to
face his partner.

Poke
was white, sweating and at a total loss as he activated a hidden
compartment, the pocket within holding only a tanto blade, sheathed
in ebony and mother of pearl. He turned awkwardly and presented the
weapon to Serial through the window.

His
partner took it with a nod and a small, sad smile. Far down the road
the lights and growling engines of the ChrysTech rapid response team
began to stain the surreal quiet of this moment. To Poke, the smile
was the most terrible thing he had ever seen on a mission; it was
alien and strange on the usually impassive face of his partner.

“I
shall buy you some time,” Serial said finally, sliding the tanto
into his obi, tucking it beneath the mounting of his katana, making
them both, again, a matched pair.

/////

In
Poke's rear view mirror, he could see the dwindling figure of Serial
Killer silhouetted against the bright halogens of the pursuit
vehicles. He watched the street samurai walk away from him and into
legend, until he couldn't bear to watch any longer.

In
his imagination, the roar of the engine sounded mournful as the car
ate up the night, flying through the sleeping streets and open roads.
It was a long, lonely journey to the rendezvous and the coming dawn,
but he didn't hear the sounds of pursuit.

Wednesday, 12 September 2012

I've spent a few minutes over the last few days thinking about being a punk, or how being a punk might affect your life. This is mostly to do with how we tend to use the word punk nowadays and how the usage of the word within the genre fiction community is moving away from a sense of political comment and towards an emptier sentiment of the "cool-sounding descriptor".

To unpack that last sentence a bit, I think formulations that add the -punk suffix are turning into the same phenomena of describing weird things as "like [uncontroverisal thing], but on acid!" It's a hyperbole that no-one who took acid would see the same way as a credulous member of the public. Everyone would sort of know what you meant, but not many people would appreciate what that would actually be like.

For the sake of full disclosure, I'd like to point out that I don't have any problem with steam-powered swashbuckling adventure or whimsical clockwork flights of fancy or any of the wonderful and interesting tropes that Steampunk, Dieselpunk or Clockpunk bring to the party. I'd also like to admit to not being much of a punk at all; I just think that when you use a term as powerful and meaningful as "punk", you need to respect it.

So let's walk the line of nPunk, some words that have been punk-ified:

The Inkpunks - This is a group of authors, editors and creatives that features Sandra Wickham and numerous other likeable individuals. I can even see why there is some kind of overlap in terms of DIY type activity (crochet, craft and artistic projects). I have the least amount of problems with this kind of thing in the context of the above comments; it just seems like a snappy name, not a manifesto choice. (Feel free to tell me otherwise!)

Cyberpunk - This is punk, extrapolated. It was born in a time where a popular punk movement was being developed and propagated in wider social awareness; the themes of nihilism, political involvement, direct action, the opposition to oppressive forms of commercial and government activity, anarchism and the pursuit of an alternate lifestyle all seem to feature in the literature. It's not high philosophy, but has an authentic and believable attitude to issues the authors believe will proliferate and worsen over time.

The best addition to the genre, over and above the issues that were contemporary to punks at the time, was the question of humanity and where one drew the line between human and machine. I may be absolutely derivative and write acres of dreck whenever I try and address the subject, but it's still captivating.

Steampunk (and Clockpunk and Teslapunk and etc.) - Now here, I have a problem. I think it's best to chop the issue into bits:

1) I know it was a kind of joke name for a genre; I'm fine with people having a sense of humour about this stuff and I like a lot of the more swashbuckling adventures and other related fiction I have seen. This much is OK.

2) I don't know what Steampunk is anymore. That's not some kind of existential wail, it's just difficult to put it all into context. Is it a fashion and DIY-based movement with an aesthetic and a catchy name? Is it a genre of alternate histories around a common theme of the use of steam that tends to feature Victorian social mores and a basis in pulp novels and penny dreadfuls? Or is it actually capable of addressing serious social issues, bringing to light some of the political upheavals in the Victorian period and judging them against our own progress (or lack of it)?

3) Am I reading the right stuff? Am I just missing all the interesting works where serious issues are being addressed? I've enjoyed the Diamond Age, ripped through Retribution Falls and the Black Lung Captain at a ferocious pace, enjoyed The Native Star and have purchased the sequel and generally found the books to be good fun. I just can't remember any really serious examinations of race and class and gender; they all just seem to ultimately fall into the background of Victoriana; I can't remember reading Steampunk that had a punk sensibility.

4) Here's the root of it; why call something punk and then not treat it like the wonderful portmanteau of ideas it is? Many of the institutions the punks of the 70s and 80s were disaffected by (in the UK at least) were relics of Imperial reign; from the Queen, to the Parliament, to favouritism and the old-boy network, all were historical anachronisms. Do we say that we are the punks that write about steam, or do we let the iconoclasts of these fictional worlds have their say?

It's not an easy problem to solve and I'm not trying to denigrate a genre that many people are very fond of, but surely there must be elements that I'm either missing (so, please feel free to recommend something for me to read if you have any suggestions) or that have been overlooked in the pursuit of swash and buckle and high adventure.

Would you agree with the sentiment that letting the punk back into Steampunk can only enrich a genre which is in danger of becoming a description of the window dressing rather than the strange view into weirdly familiar and exciting territories that it could be?

Thursday, 6 September 2012

So, here's my entry to Mr. Wendig's writing challenge for this week, the theme being an open ended sci-fi/fantasy kind of thing.

I'll admit that this is a draft really, with a few bits to hammer out, but let's see how it goes.

The reason: I did the too big for my boots thing and ended up trying to write a sci-fi meets fantasy thing. It was going very well, until I realised that I needed about 5000 words for any of it to make sense, or at least 2500.

This was something quick that I was able to knock together and I still found myself putting in loads of exposition... it's just difficult for me to avoid world building even when I'm very limited in word count.

"Tribunal"

Their footsteps seemed
to multiply as they made their way down the corridor, the walls and
floors and ceilings heavily accreted with the technological detritus
of the Confederation; the whole place seemed to smell of alkali and
the scent of flesh. Their progress was a cacophony, three figures
walking in a procession down the corridor, each very different from
the other.

Only Tribune Gold was
not going to be able to leave though.

Ahead of her, the
hulking form of Tribune Blue was marching with a sombre, leaden
rhythm, his archaic, inscribed battlesuit nearly filling the passage,
the gravsword Justice strapped to his back like he bore his own
personal cross, the gleaming tip bobbing inches above the metal grate
floor as he proceeded. Until four hours ago, Gold had looked very
similar, her own aged battlesuit pitted and scarred with the
souvenirs of ancient wars.

She, like he, had been
Tribune; lawgiver, guarantor, leader... and ultimate sanction. A one
woman army that could quell planets.

The party came to a
junction place, a womb of steel and arcane circuitry, greeted only
with the whine of high energy machinery as scanning laser fields
enveloped the group. Blue's Ident Code came up, the Tribune Seal
stamped by his name, venerable, ancient and respected.

Gold's details flicked
up onto the screen a second after, the proofs of her identity erased
now, her name reverted back to Police Lieutenant Lupe Vasquez, and
her personnel assignment to ConFedBio now.

It was a mockery, a
betrayal. She had given every day of her life from her twenty-fifth
birthday to the Tribune Order, sharing the fellowship of her brother
and sister Tribunes, facing danger and death in ancient, mysterious
fighting machines and serving her star nation.

The last file to pop up
was White, the author of this little charade. A traitor in the ranks.

/////

Gold was considered a
senior Tribune now, after more than a century of service, her
background in policing and her administrative talents seeing her
spend more time in her office in the Eyrie than out in the vastness
of space. She had seen the writing on the wall when the Kinsey Group
moved in on the military contracting, enlisting huge numbers of
hopefuls for a vanishingly few Tribune positions, pulling strings to
get political push behind their recommendations, running roughshod
over the traditions of her brothers and sisters.

White was one of the
new breed, a hungry probationary clique who sought only the first
opportunity to claim a vacant Suit and carve their name in the stars.
She was the kind of person Gold would have never let in the Order if
she had her way. There was no other route to appease the worried
Council though; no means of convincing them that the Tribunes,
despite their strength, were not a threat to the Confederation.

Her hands were tied
until they moved against her Order, until they finally broke the Oath
of centuries.

It was ironic that even
with the Oath broken, her hands were still bound, literally this
time. Gold's lips quirked in a grim smile as she tested her shackles,
her tall, heavily muscled physique straining and causing the metal of
the restraints to creak.

White stepped back in
shock and spat out a curse at Gold, the woman's tall, slender body
dwarfed by the Tribune's enhanced biology. Gold could feel the fear
radiate from the younger woman and enjoyed the sight of her betrayer
reaching for her suppression stick in a classic panic reaction. She
met White's gaze and bared her teeth in a grimace..

Only Blue's armoured
hand on her shoulder made her look away and proceed further into the
bowels of the complex.

////

Gold found herself in a
surprisingly small chamber, made smaller still by the biological
containment unit that occupied the centre of the room. Blue took up a
position behind her, his massive armoured bulk stopping any chance of
escape.

White had already
crossed over to the control panel and seemed pleased with herself as
the glass front to the oversized containment chamber slowly pivoted
downwards. She was enjoying the chance to assert herself again as she
sneered at Gold, looking up slightly at the bigger woman.

“You know, Gold, I
thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” the blonde waved
her had through the air mockingly, like she was describing a grand
banner, her voice going wryly grandiloquent, “TRIBUNE GOLD! HERO OF
THE CONFEDERATION!”

White's chuckle was
ugly as she slapped a hand on the containment chamber, “Well, it's
time for your well earned retirement... put out to pasture at last!”

A command brought up an
armature studded with phallic shapes and entwined with skeins of
cable and pipes.

“When I suggested to
the ConFedBio archivists that they needed a live test sample to
retro-engineer the effects of the Suits on a human body, they just
snapped it up.” With a wave of her hand, White set the armature's
protrusions to a slow, steady pistoning action.

“You're going to be
their test bed, their plaything and their surrogate womb for the next
hundred years Gold. By the time you're let loose, if you ever are,
I'll have been Gold for too long for anyone else to remember
otherwise.”

/////

There was a bare shiver
of movement behind Gold and she saw White stiffen in response to
Blue's obvious discomfort.

White quickly tapped a
command into the control pad and a synthesised voice filled the room,
“Tribune Blue, dismissed. Please report to Eyrie command for
debrief. Protection, service and honour, Tribune.”

White didn't even look
up as she prepped the chamber, not seeing the reassuring squeeze of
the arm Blue gave Gold.

“Protection, Justice
and honour, Tribune,” Blue repeated, the voice from the suit
speakers deep and rich with meaning, before he turned and left the
room with a dull thud of a burden removed, his step noticeably
lighter to her keen hearing.

Gold rolled her
shoulders and smiled wolfishly at White's back as she waited for the
penny to drop.

“Protection and...
Justice?” White asked as she turned.

Tribune Gold was
hefting Blue's massive blade in a two-handed grip, barely hampered by
her shackles as she replied, “No, girl. Only Justice.”